


90 Minutes

by LuminousPie



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminousPie/pseuds/LuminousPie
Summary: Mulder likes to watch Scully sleep
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	90 Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a very long time. Please be kind.

If he wanted to he could achieve a lot in 90 minutes.

If he really wanted to.

In college he’d learned the value of a good 90 minutes. In 90 minutes he could read 250 - 300 pages of a book (he read fast), he could paint the bathroom wall Scully had been getting on at him to do for the last two weeks, go for a long run, or a walk, there were plenty of movies he wanted to watch and rewatch, TED talks - he liked those (he was thinking of doing one himself), sex - he liked that too (a lot), he could meal plan Lily’s food for the next week, soccer lasted 90 minutes, joyfully waste time on the unnecessary things in life (poor Arthur Dales, they’d both recently passed), the laundry always needed doing… The list was probably endless.

There was really only one good thing to do in 90 minutes though.

He liked to spend his 90 minutes watching Scully fall asleep. 90 minutes was all it took for the human body to go through the stages of a sleep cycle. 90 minutes was all it took for him to know she was at peace. Born of a childhood wonder that had never receded he was fascinated by watching people and Scully was no exception, always had been, especially in sleep. All the sounds she made, the movements, the breathy words. Her routine, everything she did during each stage comforted him. His desire to watch over and protect her as strong now as it was when he’d first met her all those years ago. 90 minutes to put him at peace.

She knew he did it of course. She never complained. After setting aside their work for the day, after bathing and putting Lily to sleep, they’d spend an hour talking or watching something on Netflix or just kissing or just holding each other, before heading up the stairs and huddling under the covers of their bed. She’d give him a smile, an imperceptible nod, and then yawn and her eyelids would flutter closed, heavy with sleep, beginning the eccentricities that would get her a meeting with the sandman.

During stage 1, non-REM sleep, she was still strong, fearless and fierce. Fussy. In the change over from wakefulness to sleep she’d huff and puff, trying to get comfortable. She rattles off a list of complaints using body language alone and he dutifully listens, propped up on his elbow. 

3 minutes spent on her left side, her back to him, followed by 3 on her right, occasionally she’d open her eyes and look at him, smile maybe. Never words. Sometimes a delicate hand would reach out to touch his hand or his cheek, sometimes she liked to touch his chest, enjoy the steady beat of his heart pulsing under her warm hand. Hers was the only intimate touch he’d ever felt truly comfortable with.

Afterwards she’d roll onto her back and fall into the beginnings of a light sleep. Her breathing would even out, her eye movements would slow and she’d visibly relax, losing the stiffness she often carried around with her. She’d curl up into the tiniest of balls or manoeuvre herself into odd positions. When Scully slept she was like a stray strand of spaghetti in Lily’s grubby post dinner palm: pliable and all over the place.

Stage 2 - deeper sleep. Scully would settle down, her heartbeat would slow and she wouldn’t toss and turn so much. This stage would bring about her cuddle phase. Unless she was in a post coital bliss and wanted to be spooned, Dana Scully was a woman that liked her physical space in bed. She was the master of her own domain. She liked to be left physically alone.

But not now. Now she shuffled closer, seeking him out and his warmth. Her cold toes would touch his shin and he’d shiver but he’d lower his head to the pillow and tuck her in close. Usually she’d snort a thanks and he’d have to stifle a laugh.

She spent her longest time in stage 2, she was at her most blissful, the tension faded from her features. He was most in love with her here (not that he didn’t love the other stages but each stage held a different fondness to it) and he would brave a touch to her hair, move it off her face and tuck it behind her ear gently. He liked to watch the moonlight lighting up the copper strands. Many a time he’d had a happy few minutes just touching the silky soft ends, dropping a kiss to some he’d caught between his index and middle finger, smelling it, letting it tickle his lip. White peach today. Cedarwood last time. It was divine. Uniquely her. He could get off on her scent alone.

Tonight, like all the other nights, he spent some time memorising her under the shadows of light. He always slept with the blinds open, she’d hated it at first but she’d learnt to love it too, confessing that she enjoyed watching him move under the glow of the moon as they made love. They both liked to watch.

Stage 3 brought about a sleep so deep not even a stampeding herd of elephants would wake her. Stage 3 was her loud phase. She was big and powerful and seemed much taller than her full height. She’d snore through a slack jaw, competing with Lily in the room next door, a cacophony of deafening grunts through the walls, she’d dream and act it out vocally with cries and whispers, her lips moving on a discourse of mimicked speech, close to words but never coherent. All but one. His name an affirmation. He could lose himself in that sigh.

Thankfully her grumbles wouldn’t last long but it wasn’t until this stage was over that he’d be able to start thinking about his own slumber.

Stage 4 - REM sleep - 90 minutes nearly up. Her breathing changes again, becoming faster and irregular. She dreams. He wonders what’s going on underneath her shifting eyelids. Is it happy or sad tonight? Was it silly? Make believe or memory? Fantasy or reality? Did she think about them?

Sometimes in the kitchen during breakfast he’d catch her looking at him in a way that would suggest she’s had a rather salacious dream. He would smile at her and even after all these years together she’d blush and bite her lip. It was something he’d never tire of.

Her dreams were never something he’d ask her about though, he’d just tell her he was available. It was all she needed. Half a life together had taught him that she would come to him.

Stage 4 is where he starts to drift. He always tries to stay awake as long as possible, tries to keep his gaze fixed on her in the dark, tries to remember the last look, but he is only human and he knows he's getting older. Long gone are the days when he could sit up until the middle of the night. He liked his comforts when at home. Sleep before 11 is one of them. He closes his eyes on a subtle puff of her breath against his skin and the gentle noises she still makes occasionally.

He might not remember when he gazes at her last but he is nevertheless content with knowing she is there and always will be.

His 90 minutes are never wasted.


End file.
